


Journey

by endversecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mild Gore, Overdosing, Recreational Drug Use, Suicidal Castiel, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, attempted overdose, warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endversecas/pseuds/endversecas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>maybe our stories are absorbed through our skin and sink down into the fibers of our bones, and when we become dust, they are written upon the ground, where they will live - forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journey

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter names for this work are inspired by the soundtrack for the game "Journey." I would highly suggest listening to each song with the corresponding chapter.

Nadir

Puffs of hot breath float away from the cavern of his mouth, little white clouds in the freezing air. He can't feel his feet or his palms, and his nose burns with each trembling inhalation, but he does not move, besides the uncontrollable shivering of his desperate body. There is no point in wasting what little energy he has left. There is a stillness in the empty room that seems so fragile that even the slow, muted thump-thump of his heart might shatter it. He doesn't dare endanger that porcelain perfection. It is, in fact, his death bed, and it is sacred.

His tired eyes are half sunken into his skull, the bruises beneath them delicate petals of a strange, dark flower that feeds off insomnia and solitude, yet still starving for the sun. He aches, his body a cage of brittle bones and fleshy sinew, locking him up inside himself, an unforgiving captor. 

Sighing, he stretches his ice-white hand, listening to the pop of his little finger joints, remnants of the many faces that hand has kissed, balled up like a comet scorching the sky.  
It is also remnants of the tender way he channeled grace through long fingers into flesh, into cells, into atoms - composing a body, a mind, and healing all of the above. He wants to laugh, because that man is a joke. He is a joke, not even a man. He's a stranger. Like clothes that don't fit, he rots inside this borrowed bag of bones. But he cannot break the silence. 

\------

He dozes off, not sure for how long, but it's been long enough for ice crystals to form on his eyelashes and distort his vision. The room looks fractured and he thinks it must be the entire world heaving and shuddering its last breath, a warning of what is to come. He hopes the earth swallows him up, folding him and pressing him down into dust, so maybe the darkness in his blood turns to diamonds. 

\------

The silence has grown so much that his ears ring, and he thinks that he must be the only thing alive for miles. A small, quiet part of him whispers, _you're dying. _  
He knows it is true. By now, the blood has left his extremities, rushing to his malnourished torso, an attempt to keep his heart pumping, atrium-ventricle, atrium-ventricle. He wishes he had saved ammo, because he could do with a bit of lead on his tongue, rather than slowly freezing to death. But he has no options and must suffer his own stupidity once again.__

\------

For, perhaps, the last time, those starving, crinkled, blue eyes rove over every surface of the room, caressing the border where wall meets floor. He can't think straight; his thoughts wander of their own volition, like they are a breeze he can't keep track of. It takes him several long moments to grasp a fleeting thought and make some semblance of sense, only for it to flit off again, a bird darting away from his useless, frozen hand. 

In a single, trembling breath, fire starts in the pads of his feet and palms of his hands, racing up the tiny vessels of his arms and legs, and he swears he feels sweat prickling at the base of his neck and he thinks, _I'm on fire. _He sits up as much as his stiff body will allow, shedding his ragged jacket, no respite, but no worse either.  
But he begins to weep, the tears freezing on his pallid cheeks, and he heaves his deadened body to the left, eyes on the small twin bed pushed hastily against the wall. His only thought is that he must reach the bed, he must wedge himself beneath it - that the shelter will keep him alive. After several endless minutes, he has burrowed himself in the garbage and clutter under the bed, and he curls in on himself, his heart speeding away from him, ready to burst from his collapsing chest cavity. __

His cheek lies nestled in a pile of debris, eyes glassy and dull, his shallow breath not even making steam now. He smiles, chapped lips cracking, and there he loses consciousness, buried in the garbage.


End file.
